


Irrational Creatures

by RosingsPark



Category: Austenland - All Media Types, Les Misérables - All Media Types, Persuasion - Jane Austen
Genre: Getting Back Together, Historical Reenactment, Modern AU, Multi, Slow Burn, past relationship, regency au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2020-07-28 16:51:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20067361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosingsPark/pseuds/RosingsPark
Summary: Courfeyrac's life is not what he thought it would be. He's nearing thirty, single, and stuck writing empty articles for an online lifestyle magazine. When he comes across an advertisement for an immersive Jane Austen experience, he knows it's the opportunity of a lifetime. But Courfeyrac finds there's more to the beautiful manor than just cravats and bonnets when he's suddenly face to face with a person from his past.A Persuasion & Les Misérables Modern AU





	1. 100% Agony

**Author's Note:**

> I started working on an Austen/Les Mis mashup furiously after watching Austenland. Please enjoy :)

Chapter One

_100% Agony_

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a thirty-year-old man with no career prospects, very few friends and no romantic attachments should be in want of a psychologist. Or getting laid. Either would be perfectly fine with Courfeyrac.

He’s staring at a blank Word document, his fingers hovering over the keys, but there’s nothing coming out of his brains. He types a few words, shakes his head, and deletes them before anyone can read how atrocious they are. He should get some distraction, just five minutes. He’s sure that afterwards his concentration will be back again and he’ll be able to grind out another article. He opens his browser and heads over to Musain.com, an online magazine he would readily exchange for the one he’s currently working at, not in the least because of a Certain Someone working there. He reads an article on whether the sexualisation of Mr Darcy is feminist or not, and wishes he could’ve written something like it. He’s completely engrossed in the article until a pink flickering advertisement in the bottom corner catches his eye.

_Ever wondered what being a Jane Austen heroine would be like? Wonder no longer! _

His curiosity gets the better of him. It’s a welcome difference to feeling abject horror at the current state of his life. He clicks.

A bright new window fills his screen. Pictures of ladies in light-coloured empire waist dresses, of handsome men with immaculate hair in revealing trousers and a handsome cream-coloured Georgian mansion surrounded by green lawns – he doesn’t quite know where to look, there’s such an abundance of extravagance.

There’s a textbox on the left.

_Tired of going through the motions of 21_ _st _ _Century life? Has your Mr Darcy still not made his appearance in your life? Step back into the Regency Era at Godmersham Park’s Fully Immersive Jane Austen Experience. Our Five Star Immersion has turned women from all walks of life into the heroines of their very own Jane Austen Novel. Experience for yourself the language, food and clothing of England’s best beloved author. Discover what it is like to be an Austen heroine and perhaps you may find love, too. _

Courfeyrac stares at the text with an open mouth. Then his eyes glide back to the pictures. For a second, he lets his imagination run wild. He would be lying if he tried to tell himself he wasn’t interested in strutting about in waistcoats and cravats and knee- high leather boots. Or finding a Mr Darcy, for that matter. Then he snorts. Shakes his head. Laughs at himself for thinking he could just apply for a month’s leave. He can just about imagine it: “I would like to request a holiday so I can pretend I’m in a period drama, thank you very much.”

He closes the window.

He’s really starting to go bonkers, isn’t he? He pushes back his chair from his desk and tries to get an overview of the chaos in the hope that he’ll be able to be productive again if it’s cleaner. His desk is a shrine to the deity called Unfinished Cups of Coffee. In a corner stands a small plant that his mother has gifted him. The leaves started to droop earlier this week, obscuring his framed _Jane Eyre _quote.

_I am no bird; and no net ensnares me._

Yeah. It’s not that he hates his job. It’s just that he’d rather staple his own ears to the inside of Jane Eyre’s metaphorical bird-catching net than write any more articles on how Mercury being in retrograde might affect those with a Venus Moon, or about the best time to define a relationship when you’re both Virgos. He really, really lost track of the path that led him to being in charge of interpreting the movements of the constellations. Well, he supposes it must have been written in the stars, somehow.

“Courfeyrac! Courfeyrac! Have you heard?”

Courfeyrac cranes his neck and looks sideways to see an excited-looking Marius approaching. His cheeks are red and there’s a near manic glance in his eye. Marius falls down onto the empty office chair in the cubicle next to his, and rolls the chair closer to Courfeyrac.

“The new director is calling for a meeting in five and word on the street is that there’s going to be big, big cuts,” he whispers conspiratorially.

Courfeyrac isn’t particularly surprised, but a flicker of hope takes flight within him. “I always thought Javert would start some sort of revolution. It can’t go any further downhill.”

A recollection comes back to Courfeyrac of a younger and sprightlier version of himself. He had graduated from Oxford two years earlier, the last cracks in his broken heart had finally more or less been patched up, and he was eager to start his career. The Lady had seemed the perfect job opportunity, and he was taken on for the role of Junior Literature Editor, which pleased him so much that before the end of the day he’d already updated his official function on LinkedIn. The younger Courfeyrac could already see himself rising through the ranks. He’d write reviews of beautiful books and in-depth articles on literature, and within a year or two, he’d be moving on to The New York Times or something similarly distinguished.

Instead, it has been seven years already, hardly any distinction, and little to no articles on books and literature, deep or otherwise. It really has all gone downhill. He wishes he could slap his younger self for being so presumptuous as to think The New York Times was within his reach. Well. At least he has Marius, which is a comfort.

Marius looks scared, like a deer caught in headlights. “Do you think it’s going to affect us?”

“Oh, I certainly hope so,” says Courfeyrac with a level of confidence that he really doesn’t feel, but he doesn’t particularly want to think about things changing for the worse. He doesn’t believe it’s possible, really. “Maybe they will actually start letting us do the jobs they hired us for.” 

“I wish I had your trust,” Marius states. They weave their way through the crowds, take a shortcut via the fire stairs and enter the conference room before the rest of the flock does.

“Come here,” Courfeyrac gestures Marius towards the front row and when he that Marius is breaking out in a sweat, he puts a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “He’s not going to bite. I don’t think.” He adds.

The room gradually starts to fill out and Courfeyrac is sitting on his chair the wrong way around to do a bit of people-spotting, even though Marius hisses at him to turn around. “We’re already in the spotlight enough. Act natural.”

Courfeyrac can hear the exclamation points in Marius’ sentence and laughs. People watching has always the most enjoyable part of this job. He takes a certain morbid delight in the fact that Jeff over there writes article after article about Unicorn Frappuccinos and that Safia, who’s just entering the room, has rewritten the same article about keeping houseplants alive for the past three years. If he remembers rightly, Jeff majored in Political Science and Safia holds a PhD in Biology.

“Marius if you ever wonder how you got stuck at a sub-standard online magazine, just take heart in the fact that about forty other people are thinking the _exact _same thing.”

“Um, Courf?” Marius voice is more high-pitched than normal and Courfeyrac inelegantly whips around on his chair to come face to face with the excessively broad, well-tailored-suit- wearing chest of a man he’s never seen before. His eyes travel up to meet a pair of dark eyes looking sternly out from under a pair of similarly dark eyebrows. Courfeyrac gulps and desperately hopes that this isn’t Javert. Because he’ll be _fucked _otherwise.

“Hi, Mr Javert,” Marius besides him squeaks. Fucked.

  * ••

Two months later things have not improved. Courfeyrac quits typing for a second and stretches his arms in the vain hope that he might get some feeling back into them. These days, his fingers have become disconnected from his brain, because he’s churning out article after article, and once he’s finished one and sent it in, he immediately forgets whether it’s one about how the full moon might affect Scorpios or something about this season’s Hottest Rosé.

At least he knows now that he should trust Marius whenever his friend has a hunch, because things _have _changed. Javert rules with an iron rod. Thirteen of his colleagues have been given the sack and Courfeyrac thanks God for the fact that his articles usually have a high hitrate, because he knows he doesn’t owe still having his job to being particularly good friends with Javert. On the contrary – Javert seems to do his best to make it clear to him every single day that he expects him to deliver more of those high-scoring articles. Javert doesn’t need to add an ominous “or else...”, because Courfeyrac can sense it in the way Javert towers over him, shoulders straight, expression blank.

So instead of being left jobless and destitute, his workload has doubled, because even Javert is forced to admit that Courfeyrac has a modicum of writing talent. He’s given Courfeyrac full reign over Plants and Food & Drinks, as well as his own Astrology department. And still his articles still receive a good amount of hits. He manages. Courfeyrac likes to think it’s because he zoned out somewhere in 2017.

His body seems to have replaced the need for food with writing about London’s Top Five Places to get Avocado Toast, and sleep is something that, according to his own authority on the interpretation of celestial bodies, Aquarians like him don’t need that much of anyway. He should be fine.

He looks at the framed portrait of Jane Austen that’s standing next to his computer screen. He likes to think of her as his guardian angel, and right now his guardian angel is telling him he needs a break and a cup of coffee. After shooting Marius a text to meet him there, he picks up his mug and stares at the inspirational quote written across it in aggressive caps-lock. _If Britney survived 2007, you can survive today_. He sighs, resigned, and saying a quick prayer to the shared forces of Saint Britney and Miss Austen, asking for strength, he stands up and heads to the kitchenette.

He finds Marius leaning against the refrigerator, nursing a steaming cup of tea. Marius’ round face breaks into a smile when he sees Courfeyrac enter. He puts his mug on the counter and wraps Courfeyrac in a hug. “How have you been? I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever.”

Marius is one of the lucky ones as well; his odd niche knowledge of cat psychology and his popular articles on what to get your dog for his birthday seem to have saved him from the noose.

Courfeyrac claps Marius on his back and says, “I know, it does feel like forever.” Marius draws back and inspects Courfeyrac’s face. “You look tired,” he states.

“Tired?” Courfeyrac repeats. He places his mug under the coffee machine and presses a few buttons. The machine starts spluttering and the smell of coffee hits his nostrils. “I don’t know who she is.” He grins to take the edge off his words, but apparently, he’s not succeeding as well as he thinks he is, because Marius expression turns even more serious.

“You should take some time off, get away from the office.”

“Ooh!” Courfeyrac exclaims. He takes out his phone and starts typing.

“What... Courf? – What are you doing?” Marius moves around him to look at his phone screen. “ ‘_Six Ways to Keep your Houseplants Alive while you’re on Holiday’_?” he says despairingly. “Courfeyrac, what? ‘_Three Houseplants you can Totally take with you on a Glamping Trip’_” He snatches Courfeyrac’s phone from his hand and forces Courfeyrac to look him in the eyes.

“I’m starting to think maybe you need more thans ome time off, Courf,” he says softly, “this isn’t good.”

Courfeyrac has never seen Marius this serious, and it worries him. Somewhere in the back of his own brains, there is a voice telling him to heed Marius’ advice. Another voice though, louder, tells him that he is fine. Insists that he thrives under stress.

Before Courfeyrac can reply, there’s a noise behind them, somebody is clearing their throat. Courfeyrac whips around and he’s immediately confronted with Javert’s enormous frame. He’s so tall, he barely fits underneath the doorpost. And then, of course, there’s the thunderous look in his eyes. By now it’s a well-known fact that Javert has a kink for productivity and the fact that Courfeyrac and Marius are chatting in the kitchenette will surely be added to Javert’s private list of reasons to sack both of them.

“Gentlemen,” Javert starts. His voice is a deep timbre that strikes fear into Courfeyrac’s heart. He knows that his caffeine levels are already soaring and that death by fear is only one angry boss away. But Courfeyrac knows he is made of sterner stuff, so he looks Javert right in the eye. “I would prefer it if you did not waste any more of your paid time chattering like two little girls in a playground. Pontmercy. I need that article on the dangers of vegan dog food before the day’s out –” Javert ignores Marius’ whimpering and turns to Courfeyrac. “And you, your article on palmreading was excellent. Can I get a follow up ready for publication before the week’s out?”

“Um, yes?” Courfeyrac replies, feeling stunned. He decided not to bring up the fact that it’s Thursday and that Javert effectively has given him only one day. He’s pleased enough for the time being. As long as it’s not “You’re fired,” coming from Javert’s mouth, anything is positive.

Javert gives a curt nod, looking as though he’s displeased with himself for giving a compliment to somebody he dislikes. “Then, if you’ll please return to your desks...” he trails off.

Courfeyrac knows better than to linger. He collects his mug from under the machine (triple espresso) and he swears he can see Javert suppress a smile as the Britney-quote comes into view. Then, their boss turns on his heel and sweeps away from the kitchenette in search of other colleagues to torment, no doubt.

Marius trails behind Courfeyrac. His desk is a couple of stalls away from Courfeyrac’s but they’re walking slowly to get as much time together as possible.

“He gives me the shivers,” Marius admits. His arms are wrapped around his mug of tea as if it’s the only thing keeping him safe. Then his face clouds over with a sour expression. “Vegan dog food,” he mutters.

“Well, at least you get to write something against it. I’m starting to feel more and more like some sort of Professor Trelawney.” Courfeyrac says. They arrive at his desk much sooner than either of them would want and with a few more words and furtive looks to check if Javert isn’t keeping his eyes on them, they take their leave of each other. Courfeyrac settles down on his chair and overviews the chaos on his desk with a sigh. “Yeah, maybe I do need a holiday.”

He returns to work and to his surprise, he finds himself being able to concentrate rather well. He does some research, works on a few articles that he’s nearly finished, and makes a headstart on the follow-up article on palmistry that Javert requested. He’s only shaken from his concentration a few hours later when an email from Marius pops up in the corner of his screen.

_Courf, _

_I just came across something I think you might love!!!  
it’s like a jane austen THEME PARK where you get to play mr darcy ! _ _www.godmersham.co.uk _

_thank me later _

_Kind Regards, _

_Marius Pontmercy  
Senior Animal Welfare Writer at TheLady.Org _

_p.s. have you had anything other to drink than coffee today _

And Courfeyrac has to admit, all that research into astrology and palm-reading and what not has made him question his previously held belief that there is no such thing as fate. Because he feels that maybe fate does exist. And it exists in the form of Godmersham Park’s Austen Immersion Holidays.

He clicks the link.


	2. A lively, playful disposition

It takes him approximately four hours to reach the only bus stop in the little village closest to Godmersham Park, and he’s surprised to find he doesn’t mind. It’s a rude awakening yet a welcome change from his normally fast-paced life. He thinks back to the past three weeks, during which he churned out a miraculous forty-three articles. Javert had approved his holiday, to Courfeyrac’s great astonishment, but on the only condition that his physical absence wouldn’t have any effect on his online presence. So he worked even more than he had done before and Javert had not only been quite pleased with his content, he had even wished him safe travels and a good time.

Courfeyrac thought it was like the eighth world wonder.

He hasn’t packed much – the lady he spoke to over the phone assured him that period appropriate clothes would be provided – but sitting on top of his toiletries and spare clothes is his well-beloved edition of Pride and Prejudice, which he hasn’t read in almost eight years. It’s the inevitable consequence of working full-time and living alone. He’s had to make do with the movie; he hasn’t even had the time to watch the BBC version, let alone read the book itself.

When Marius disappears from his view as the first of many trains leaves the platform, his hands eagerly grab for the book. It’s dog-eared and annotated, and he can’t wait to start. Flashy flats turn into suburban neighbourhoods until finally he looks out onto a stretch of open countryside. The weather is turning brighter and warmer and the pastures are becoming a lovely shade of green. Courfeyrac smiles to himself and settles back into his seat to find that Netherfield Park is let at last.

It feels as though he’s being transported back in time, and with that come less happy recollections of a time when he was young, ecstatic and full of dreams. His mood, so light before, clouds over at the memories of spring days similar like these. Lying back in a punt on the river, and _him _towering over Courfeyrac. Wine drunk from a bottle shared between the two of them, shouting Britney Spears songs at the top of their lungs. He can remember autumns spent holed up in the library together, and winter days spent under the blankets together in the hopes of expelling the cold from their icy dorms.

God, he hates himself. Then, he shakes his head. No, he doesn’t hate himself. It was a good decision to end things. All things considered, then. They had spent two years in perfect happiness, but they were on different paths in life. _He _wanted Academia whereas Courfeyrac was intent on fast-tracking his way to being an eminent journalist. _He _ wanted to stay where he way, Courfeyrac was happy to go to any place that had an opportunity for him.

And Courfeyrac can also remember his parents’ arguments well. _You’re still young. You have all your life before you. You don’t need to commit yet. Make your own way into the world first. _And they had reservations of a different nature. _He wants to be a student forever. He’ll be in debt forever. How could you make a life together? _He can’t fault them for it, nor can he fault himself for choosing to follow their advice and breaking off the relationship. But by God, it’s been eight years and none of his or his parents’ grand plans for himself have come true, there’ve been relationships but none like that one, he’s in a job that he hates, and he wishes that he’d followed his gut and been brave and – no, he shouldn’t be thinking like that. He shouldn’t. He can’t change the past and he can’t get the love of his life back.

He shakes his head and suppresses all thoughts of Combeferre and surrenders himself to Elizabeth Bennet.

-

Three trains and two different buses and he finds himself in the middle of nowhere. Quite literally.

“Are you sure that this is the right stop for you?” the chauffeur asks, frowning at Courfeyrac as he’s about to step out.

Courfeyrac looks on his phone for what is perhaps the fiftieth time. ‘Little Godmersham, Main Street’ it says on his itinerary. Courfeyrac looks outside and wonders if there are even any other streets beside Main Street.

He reassures the bus driver and hops of with a cheery goodbye and a broad smile, out onto the asphalt street. There’s gaps and cracks in the road and he nearly doubles his ankle when he accidentally steps into one of them coming out of the bus. He mutters a curse and before he can even turn around, the bus has pulled up and driven on.

It’s a quaint little village, something he might expect to see as the backdrop for an Agatha Christie adaptation. The narrow street leads into an empty stretch of countryside on one side, and on the other onto a village square surrounded by a Norman church, a crooked-looking Georgian building with a sign protruding from it that reads _The Rose and Crown_, and a neat row of low-built cottages.

Wonderful, Courfeyrac thinks as he’s taking in the sights. It’s already starting to feel like a Regency adventure, and he hopes that the big house, Godmersham Park, proves as much of a delight as the village does. An idea briefly enters his mind. _10 Hidden Places in the UK you Must Visit_. But he sheds the thought. He somehow doubts whether the people who live here would thank him for bringing millennial mass tourism to such a lovely place as this.

As per the itinerary that the lady from Godmersham had provided him with, he’s to be collected at the Rose and Crown at four o’clock, which by his watch is only half an hour away, so he decides to head inside and get something to drink while he waits.

The Rose and Crown’s interior is as quaint, if not quainter, as its exterior, and Courfeyrac doubts whether any changes have been made since the 1940s. It’s cramped and dark and it takes several minutes for Courfeyrac’s eyes to adjust. The windows are only small squares, so an enormous chandelier hangs from the low beamed ceiling, emanating a warm glow. It’s nearly empty, except for the barman and an odd-looking human-shaped form slouched on one of the bar stools. He decides, at perhaps his own risk, to draw nearer, and he sits himself down on a stool on the other end of the bar.

The barman, a broad old man busy polishing some large glasses, looks him up and down and shakes his head. “Another one!” he mutters in disbelief. Courfeyrac wonders what he’s done to already offend this kind sir. He orders a beer and tips royally, because he feels like this is the sort of man who would commiserate with his fellow old men about the state of the youth these days.

Without wasting many words, the barman slams down his beer and then continues his task of making the already shiny glasses shine even more.

“Lovely place you’ve got here,” says Courfeyrac after swallowing nearly half the glass in one go, in an attempt to make the situation less awkward. He gives him his best and most winning smile, but the barman looks unfazed. 

“Aye.” the barman replies. And nothing else. Really, Courfeyrac thinks, taking another gulp. They should instead commiserate about the state of the elderly these days.

There’s a snort from the other side of the bar where the human-shaped form is sitting. Courfeyrac looks over and sees that the person has also looked up. Now that his eyes are fully adjusted, he can see that it’s definitely a man. A pretty young one, too. He guesses they’re about the same age. He has a small notebook lying in front of him and a half-empty beer glass. Courfeyrac squints. The man has sideburns the side of squirrels. He glances down and he sees that the man is wearing something that Courfeyrac can only classify as a half-hearted attempt at Regency dress.

The man seems to notice Courfeyrac’s odd gaze, because he blushes a little. “Don’t ask. It’s a.. um.. I’m going to this thing. It’s research for my book.”

“Wait, you’re going to Godmersham Park? The Jane Austen immersion?” Courfeyrac asks.

“Yeah, I am,” replies the other man. He takes a deep swig of his beer. “They say, write what you know, so I thought it might be a good idea to get my Regency gear on and get some hands-on experience.”

“Thank God,” says Courfeyrac. “I was afraid I’d be stuck with a load of ancient people – no offense, sir, not that there’s anything wrong with our senior citizens, of course not, on the contrary I have nothing but respect fo –” He realises he’s rambling and stops for a breath. “What I’m trying to say is that I’m really happy there’s going to be somebody my age.”

The other man seems pleased, and after downing his glass, he picks up his notebook and moves over to the barstool next to Courfeyrac’s. He holds out his hand and introduces himself as Grantaire. Courfeyrac can see that he’s right in thinking they’re about the same age. Perhaps Grantaire is a little younger than he is. He has dark curls bound into a low queue at the nape of his neck and his eyes, as far as Courfeyrac can tell in the gloomy light, are a deep hazel.

“I’m a writer, though not a very good one I’m afraid, and you won’t’ve read anything I’ve written, I think.” He says, with a humourless smile.

“Courfeyrac,” he replies. “I’m a failed journalist and I needed a break. I sincerely hope you haven’t read anything I’ve written,” he adds, wrinkling his nose.

Grantaire laughs and orders another round of drinks for the both of them. Then he looks over Courfeyrac. “Why aren’t you dressed?” he says.

“Well, they said clothes would be provided for, so I didn’t think I had to...”

Even in the dim light he can see Grantaire’s already pale face blanch. He looks down at his shabby waistcoat and groans. “Oh God, I’m already making a fool of myself. Figures.” Then he slaps both hands to his face and he looks up at Courfeyrac with wide eyes. “_Please_, tell me that I dreamed pasting ridiculous sideburns on my face. Please. 

“I don’t know how to tell you…” Courfeyrac says mock-seriously. He pulls out his phone, opens the front camera and holds it forward for Grantaire to use as a mirror.

“O, woe be me!” Grantaire cries out dramatically, before dropping his hands and laughing out loud. “Making a clown of myself on my first day already.”

“Oh well,” replies Courfeyrac with a smile. “If you take clown duty the first day, I’ll do it tomorrow and then we can change the watch every day. How does that sound?”

“It’s a deal,” Grantaire replies. Courfeyrac moves to return his phone to his pocket. “You know you’ll have to swear off all technology for the next few weeks?”

Now, it’s Courfeyrac’s turn to pale. The lady on the phone had omitted that.

“Yeah, if you don’t…” Grantaire continues, drawing his forefinger slowly across his neck, his eyes dramatically wide open. “And anyways,” he adds in a more cheerful tone, “it’ll help to make it more convincing, don’t you think?”

Courfeyrac nods but he’s wondering if he can turn around and hop back on the bus and make a four hour journey back to London. Javert will actually kill him if he’s not available during his holiday. He swallows some of his beer. Christ. Help. Him.

There’s the sound of a car pulling up just outside the pub. Grantaire looks at Courfeyrac, his eyes raised. “Maybe it’s the car that’s coming to pick us up?”

Courfeyrac quickly takes another gulp of his beer. Really, two beers on a near empty stomach after a long day of traveling… He’s feeling a little woozy when he tries to jump down from his bar stool.

But before he’s reached the door, it swings open to reveal the most beautiful woman on earth. She’s taller than either of them, and barely fits underneath the doorpost. She has silky brown skin and her waist-length dark hair shines from the sun streaming into the pub through the doorway.

Courfeyrac knows his mouth has dropped open and he quickly shakes it off.

“Ahh, Mr Tremayne,” she exclaims. Her deep voice has a distinct French accent to it. She glides over towards the bar and smiles sweetly at the old man behind it, who apparently has forgotten his former reserve, and welcomes her openly, almost warmly.

“Most welcome, Miss Thenardier, I’m sure,” he says. “Shall I pour you a glass o’ something? On the ‘ouse, of course”

Courfeyrac and Grantaire exchange a surprised look.

“_Merci_, monsieur Tremayne,” the young woman says. “But I believe our carriage is not long in arriving.”

Then, she seems to notice that she’s not alone with Mr Temayne. An expression of deep interest adorns her face as she unashamedly eyes them from top to toe. Then, a small smile appears on her face.

“Ahh, they’ll do,” she says, mysteriously. “Perhaps the curly one for… well… and the other, maybe… Hmm…” she trails off. “_Ça va_, Tremayne, do not you think so?”

“Aye, miss. _Oui_, I meant.” The barman stumbles. His cheeks have gone a deep shade of cherry red.

Courfeyrac is at a loss. “Erm, if you don’t mind me asking, who are you?”

The woman walks over, and Courfeyrac thinks that even without the heels she’s wearing she would tower over him.

“_Je m’appelle _Éponine Thenardier, we’ll be seeing quite a lot of each other the next few weeks, if your friend’s outfit is anything to go by.” There’s the tiniest hint of a smile on her face that makes Courfeyrac think she’s mocking them. Somewhere in the distance, Courfeyrac registers a weird sound. Are those hooves?

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Éponine,” Courfeyrac says. He can see her eyes widen and realises his mistake when Grantaire next to him fake-coughs. “Erm, Miss Thenardier, I mean. Apologies.” The lady looks satisfied again. “I’m Courfeyrac, and this is Grantaire. We’re both heading to Godmersham Park, you were right indeed.”

Before anything more can be said by any of them, the sound of hooves quiet down and the door is opened. In the door opening stands a handsome older man, smartly dressed in livery. The vision makes Courfeyrac’s heart beat a little faster. Screw Javert, he’s going to enjoy himself very much. “The half four carriage to Godmersham Park at your service,” the man announces in a dull voice.

“That’s our cue,” Grantaire says, gathering his notebook. He downs the last of his beer and whips out a wallet from his pantaloon-pockets.

“Oh, no,” Courfeyrac tries to protest, pulling out his wallet too. “I’ll pay.”

Grantaire waves him away. “Please. I did earn _a little _from publishing my book. Let me flaunt my wealth while it lasts,” he says with a grin. Courfeyrac indulges him and says his goodbyes to the barman, who only nods sternly at him.

There’s an enormous carriage standing in the village square. Courfeyrac never realised how high Regency carriages were and he wonders how he’ll be able to get up. The liveried man frees him from his luggage and proceeds to tie it all up on top of the carriage, next to a stack of leather-coloured suitcases the size of his entire bedroom. They must be Miss Thenardier’s, Courfeyrac surmises.

The man opens the carriage door and out falls a set of steps that fill Courfeyrac with relief. In they go. Miss Thenardier first, then Grantaire, and then Courfeyrac. The servant closes the door and within seconds they hear him encouraging on the horses, and they’re off.

After a quarter of an hour’s drive, the carriage slows to a halt and Courfeyrac is glad to get out into the fresh air. The stifling air of the carriage and its jolting across the cracked asphalt has made Courfeyrac regret drinking two glasses of beer, and by the looks of Grantaire’s white face, he’s not alone in the sentiment.

When he grows accustomed to the bright light, the first he feels is disappointment. They’re standing in front of a small cottage. Cute and old and undoubtedly well-preserved, with rose bushes blooming and birds chirping. But it’s not as grand as he had expected. He looks over to Grantaire and his companion raises one of his eyebrows at him. Miss Thenardier, however, looks unfazed as the servant hands her out of the carriage, and with an air of determination walks towards the front door, which opens immediately to reveal a petite woman in a plain grey dress and white cap. She bows before admitting Miss Thenardier and then looks across the driveway and beckons Grantaire and Courfeyrac in.

They’re ushered into a bright pink drawing room. Courfeyrac has to squint to take it all in. There’s a fireplace burning brightly, even though it’s a warm spring day, and there are so many landscapes hung up on the wall that he doesn’t quite know where to look. They’re told by the maid to sit down and that Mrs Knight will be with them directly. She serves them each a cup of tea in a very pretty looking porcelain cup. 

Courfeyrac, having no idea who Mrs Knight was, feels a flutter of anticipation.

A door opens to reveal another, older maid. “Mademoiselle Thenardier, if you would come through, please?”

Miss Thenardier stands up and flicks back a stray strand of hair. Unwavering on her six inch heels, she follows the maid and disappears into another room, leaving Courfeyrac and Grantaire to wonder what on earth is happening. A few minutes later, the same maid returns and Grantaire is invited to come through, leaving Courfeyrac alone in the drawing room.

He drinks some of his tea, which by now is growing cold. But it’s still nice and helps his stomach settle a little again. Is he making a terrible mistake? He whips out his phone and sees he has several text from Marius he hasn’t yet read. He quickly writes to tell him he’s arrived and that he will tell him more as soon as he’s settled. Because he’s not going to give up his phone. If he has to choose between this holiday and his job then he knows which of the two he chooses. There’s only one that pays the bills, so he decides to take the risk and he turns off his phone and tucks it deep into a hidden compartment in his backpack. Good luck finding that.

The door opens again and Courfeyrac sits up straight, hoping the maid hasn’t caught him trying to sneak in forbidden technology. Apparently, she hasn’t, because she quite pleasantly asks him to step into Mrs Knight’s office and disappears from view.

Courfeyrac follows, expecting to find Miss Thenardier and Grantaire there too, but it’s a pastel yellow room he walk into, empty except for a formidable looking woman in a bright pink regency number, lace at her neck and wrists, a blonde wig piled high up on her head in a maze of braids, curls and feathers. Her expression is stern and he’s immediately struck with fear for this woman.

Upon seeing him, however, she smiles affectedly. “Ahh, Mr Courfeyrac, how welcome you are. Do sit down, sir.”

She’s seated on a high chair behind an enormous mahogany desk and the distance between them is enough to make Courfeyrac quite sure of who’s boss.

“I should like to discuss the rules with you shortly, tell you a little of what you may expect.” She says. The maid who had called him in reappears with a fresh tea set and pours both of them a cup and presently leaves the room. Mrs Knight collects a spoonful of sugar from a pink glazed pot and stirs her tea with some dedication.

“Alright, Mr Courfeyrac. As you know – I’m sure this has been discussed with you on the phone – you’re expected to keep all storylines at the Godmersham Park Austen Immersion a perfect secret. We find that a little dash of mystery keeps the experience sweeter and more exciting. I’m sure you agree. Now, we shall expect you to enter into the experience with dedication, relinquishing all twenty-first century comforts, such as mobile phones and laptops –” here, Courfeyrac nods and hopes he’s able to convince her he won’t disobey them.

“If we do happen to find anything of the sort,” she continues, her voice grave, “we shall be forced to have you removed from Godmersham Park without a refund. So you see, it’s in your own best interest, do you not agree? Your conduct, speech, and dress, too, must befit the time period. We can’t have anybody traipsing around in _jeans_” Mrs Knight shudders. “– Now, I must ask of each participant to respect all other members of the party. We have many clients all on different walks of life, and we consider all our clients as worthy of finding their own love story, and we expect that you shall treat them with due respect and civility.”

Mrs Knight rings a bell. A different maid enters, holding a large folder that looked distinctly modern, and places it on her mistress’ desk. Then, as silently as she had entered, she retreats from the room.

“Now, let us see,” says Mrs Knight, opening the folder and finding the right page. She has a pair of glasses hanging from a chain on her dress and settles them on the bridge of her nose. “Ah, yes… Indeed,” she mutters thoughtfully. Courfeyrac strains forward in an attempt to read the page as well, but the folder is too far away from him.

“Failed business ventures… Disappointed parents… I see it all, Mr Courfeyrac. A lively and playful disposition. A most tragic but roguish man you are, sir. I can imagine why your parents sent you here –” she looks over the rim of her glasses, stern but not unkind.

“Um, my parents don’t have anything to do wi-”

“Ye-e-s-s,” she continues, glancing back at the page. “I perfectly see it. Some time away from all the delights and temptations from the city will surely do you good. Turn you from your roguish ways and smarten your sense of business. And,” she adds, a secretive smile appearing on her face, “I daresay they hoped this retreat in the country might throw you in the path of some rich young person, no?”

“Oh, yes, indeed,” says Courfeyrac, catching on. He’s a little confused. He thought he’d be able to come up with his own background story. And the story of a failed rogue hits a little too close to home. But sure, he’ll roll with it. “A country retreat is the very thing, they said.”

Mrs Knight nods at him, evidently pleased that he’s playing along. Then, she slams the thick folder closed and rings the bell again, upon which a maid immediately enters the room.

“Please clear this, Jane, and take Mr Courfeyrac through to get his clothes fitted. I’m sure that is all. Have you any questions? No? Good day to you, then, Mr Courfeyrac. We shall see each other at the Great House.”

The maid looks at him expectantly. Mrs Knight’s attentions have already been taken up by an iPad haphazardly disguised in a leather bookcover of _The Mysteries of Udolpho_. Courfeyrac decides there’s no use in accosting Mrs Knight with all the questions that are swirling around his beer-muddled brain, so he stands up from his chair and follows Jane the maid, who, he notices as her dress hitches up from her brisk walking pace, is wearing a pair of sweatpants under her plain grey servants’ garb. What a wild place, Courfeyrac thinks. And it grows wilder yet when Jane swings open a door and reveals another room painted hot pink, lined with racks of clothes. From waistcoats to full length silk dresses to boots and bonnets, the entire room is covered with the heights of Regency fashion in all imaginable colours and prints in the entire world.

His head starts to spin as he attempts to take it all in. And Courfeyrac thinks to himself: this is going to be a wild couple of weeks.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

_Clever, well-informed people who have a great deal of conversation; that is what I call good company._

Courfeyrac is hardly breathing. A quarter of an hour’s drive in the jolting carriage brings them to the front steps of Godmersham Park and the cravat that’s been expertly tied around his neck is already well on its way to shutting off his oxygen supply, when the cream-coloured bricks of the stately building leave him absolutely breathless.

Besides him, he can hear Grantaire gasp and quickly scribble something down in the notebook that he has lying on his lap. Grantaire is similarly attired – his previous ghastly faux-Regency costume swapped for one of soft green wool that looks distinctly more period appropriate, though it still has the same air of shabbiness to it; the guinea pigs that Grantaire had pasted on his face have been pulled off, thank heavens. Courfeyrac is wearing dark blue, too, and a glorious silk waistcoat that he would love to admire, if it weren’t for the fact that he’s incapable of any intelligible thought thanks to the lack of oxygen in his brains.

Éponine Thenardier, however, has no reaction whatsoever as the house comes into view. During their carriage ride, she had mentioned, with a French accent that Courfeyrac already finds annoying, that she had had the pleasure to visit Godmersham Park and her friends the Knight family before, but Courfeyrac thinks that he could pull up to the house twenty times and still feel the same gut-reaction to its beauty. Honestly, how could this have remained hidden so well?

They step out of the carriage, the lady first, naturally, and are greeted by Mrs Knight, who has within those fifteen minutes both changed into a lilac dress with frilly laces everywhere _and _made her way to the house. He wonders whether she’s a witch with a speedy broomstick. Or perhaps she just took a car via a quick route. It’s probably the latter.

“Aahhh,” he hears her exclaim delightedly as they flock towards the front steps. “My dear Comtesse, you are most welcome, indeed.” 

Courfeyrac raises an eyebrow. Apparently Éponine Thenardier’s backstory is a little more elevated than his – or, if the clothes are anything to go by, Grantaire’s. He catches Grantaire’s eye, who’s looking similarly overwhelmed as he tucks his notebook into an inner pocket in his coat.

It’s only after she has tucked the Comtesse’s hand in the crook of her arm that Mrs Knight seems to notice the two others waiting on the pavement. 

“And you, too, Mr Courfeyrac,” she says with a delighted smile. And then, glancing over Grantaire, and giving him a condescending smile that Courfeyrac finds difficult to interpret, “and Mr Grantaire, charmed, I’m sure. Will you come in? Cook has made _delicious _sandwiches. I’m sure you must be ravished after your long trip, Comtesse.” 

They follow Mrs Knight up the steps and into a hall that’s about as big as Courfeyrac’s entire house, with marble tiles on the floor and pastel coloured walls hung with paintings and mirrors. But they’re not given the time to marvel at it, because Mrs Knight is scurrying on, holding the Comtesse close to her as they make their way into a corridor and enter into another room.

It’s larger still, adorned with comfortable looking settees, a blazing fire and paintings of idyllic pastorals on the walls. On one of the settees sits a bulky man. His face is frog-like and his expression as though he would rather be somewhere else entirely. At Mrs Knight’s not so subtle goading, he stands up, however, and assumes a marginally more neutral facial expression. 

Mrs Knight makes the introductions, and Courfeyrac finds out that this is Mr Knight, their host. He tries to hold back a grin as he looks from the one to the other. They must be a match made in heaven. She in her frilly dresses, her shrill voice and her Machiavellian coldness; he, if the expression in his eyes is anything to go by, already well on his way to being drunk, half-heartedly attending the conversation and only offering “Indeeds” and “Quites”. Courfeyrac thinks that neither of them is putting on an act.

They are made to sit and the promised sandwich are brought in before they’ve had time to settle and take in the room. It’s a good thing they do, because Courfeyrac’s stomach is dangerously close to starting to rumble, and he thinks it would be a bad idea to make a bad impression on the likes of Mrs Knight, since she has already firmly established him as A Rogue. The sandwiches are great, especially the cucumber ones, and he eats more than probably is considered proper by Regency standards. Grantaire follows suit, however, so he doesn’t mind as much.

“Perhaps you would like to refresh yourselves before dinner,” she says, rather pointedly. “We shall be reconvening at a quarter past nine, and your journey must have made you want to retire for a short while before you’re introduced to the rest of the party.” 

They make no objection, and, quickly stealing one of the last sandwiches before a maid (the same on as at the gatehouse, he notices, but now in a much smarter uniform) whisks the plate away, they follow Mrs Knight as she starts bustling through the house again. First, she delivers Comtesse Thenardier at her apartments, then they’re off again, making their way deeper into the house. Courfeyrac has to double his pace to keep up with hers.

Mrs Knight skids to a halt and turns around with an affected smile. “These, Mr Courfeyrac, are your apartments. I trust you’ll find everything to your satisfaction. We shall see you at dinner.”

Grantaire looks at him with pleading eyes but Courfeyrac can only shrug apologetically. He tries to give him what he thinks must be an encouraging smile, before Mrs Knight ushers him away farther away still, and Courfeyrac is left alone to inspect his lodgings. 

It’s an enormous room, a soft pastel yellow with large windows looking out across the park, with a distant view of the river. There are candles in every corner of the room, but after some snooping, he finds a light switch that turns on the large chandelier overhead. He gives a sigh of relief, then turns to the four-poster bed and falls down upon it. God, he didn’t think he would ever feel this grateful to be in bed. He tugs loose his cravat and stares up at the ceiling of the bed, upon which some constellations have been painted. He barks out a laugh. Of course, he goes on holiday to escape his job of writing astrological articles, only to find himself confronted with the stars anyway. 

He moves up and leans on his elbows. From here he can see a grandfather clock, steadily ticking away. It’s barely six o’clock, so he has over three hours to kill until he has to go down again. He wonders what “the rest of the party” will be like. Will there be more Mr Knights? Or maybe that handsome servant that drove their carriage. Or ladies in pretty dresses like Éponine. He notices a small table with a large tumbler of honey-coloured liquid in it. Of course, a gentleman’s bedroom _must_ contain a bottle of brandy. He thinks it’s the first and most important rule of any Regency house party. He scrambles up and pours himself a glass, first sniffing it, then drinking a drop, then chugging back the whole glass, and shuddering. Might as well behave like a Regency gentleman, too.

He ambles over to the large mahogany dresser and finds not only his backpack hanging from a hook, but also a wide array of clothes in a variety of colours and styles. He smiles to himself as he fingers a deep red coat. He pulls his phone out of the hidden compartment of his backpack and turns it on. There are several texts from Marius, among which a summary of Courfeyrac’s horoscope for the week, which Marius has expertly interpreted as “be aware of cauliflowers this week”. He falls down onto the bed again and takes his time to reply, telling Marius all about Mrs Knight and her apparent colour-blindness when it comes to picking out dresses, about Grantaire and the Comtesse. He can feel his eyes start to droop and…

There’s a curt nod on the door, somewhere far away, surely not on _his _door but somewhere on the other side of the house. The sound of the doorknob turning, creaking a little, and then a voice.

“Mr Courfeyrac?”

How funny, Courfeyrac thinks drowsily. There’s a namesake staying in this house, too. 

“Mr Courfeyrac?”

The voice sounds awfully close, so perhaps there’s some sense in finding out who it belongs to and why they’re shouting so. He manages to open one eye and a fuzzy form starts to take on the shape of a human being.

Oh, God, he thinks as he jolts awake, sitting up straight and blinking desperately to get the sleep from his eyes. “Did I miss dinner?” he demands. From the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of his telephone. He leans back ever so slightly and pushes the device underneath on of the pillows, and sits back up.

He can see that the servant is trying to suppress a chuckle. “No, sir, I’ve come to help you change for dinner. It is half past eight.”

Oh Christ, he thinks, dragging a hand through his hair and climbing off the bed with such a lack of elegance that he wonders whether he should give the servant a tip for not laughing out loud. It’s only when he straightens up that he sees it’s the handsome servant he saw earlier. He can feel redness creeping into his cheeks. _No eyeing up the servants_, he admonishes himself. _However handsome they might be, there’s a Darcy or a Bennet waiting for you in the dining room and you’re not going to spoil that for yourself_. 

The servant gives no sign of recognition, however, and starts to deftly strip Courfeyrac of his costume and put him into a fresh shirt and coat, much faster than Courfeyrac’s sleep-muddled brains can keep up with. “That will do, won’t it, sir?” the servant nods to Courfeyrac’s reflection in the mirror. Within the blink of an eye Courfeyrac is all geared up, feeling fully awake and oddly powerful in the handsome black coat and the red silk waistcoat beneath it that feel as though they’ve been tailored to his exact measurements.

“Yes, thank you…” he trails off.

“Monty Thomas, sir.”

“Thank you, Thomas,” he says, as he admires himself in the mirror, which gives a pleasing view of Monty, too. But as he glances at his costume, a bout of nervousness suddenly overtakes him. What if there isn’t a Darcy or an Elizabeth in the dining room for him? What if there are only Mr Collinses? What is this is all one big fuck-up that he and Marius will laugh about when they’re in their fifties and still writing the same articles about astrology for the same magazine. If he even has a place to return to, which he can hardly be sure of with Javert being the person he is. Has he put everything in his life on the line just to wear a cravat for three weeks straight? Jesus God, he thinks.

“Eh, sir? Mr Courfeyrac?”

He’s shaken from his reverie by Monty, whose professional facial expression only barely manages to hide a slight hint of concern.

“Ah, yes, um, sorry, Monty. I didn’t catch that.” He replies, tugging on his cravat slightly. The redness in his cheek returns.

“I said would you like me to show you the way to the dining room? Only, it’s a large house, and people have been known to get lost along the way.”

Well, that’s a boost to his confidence, if he looks like somebody who’d get lost in a _house_. He accepts the offer anyway and with a final glance to check whether his phone is sufficiently hidden, he follows Monty out into the corridor. They go through corridor after corridor, down the stairs and then a corridor again, everything looking so similar that Courfeyrac can only admit to himself that yeah, he’d probably be somebody who could get lost in a house, after all.

The man stops abruptly and opens a large ornate door and steps inside, a hand behind his back motioning for Courfeyrac to follow. “Mr Courfeyrac.” He announces solemnly, and he takes a step to the side to make room for Courfeyrac to enter.

The dining room is more splendid than any of the rooms he has seen so far, more so because of the dizzying amount of candles placed throughout the room, which give it an almost magical glow. It feels as though he’s stepped into the Great Hall at Hogwarts. The only thing missing is the enchanted ceiling and pointy hats atop people’s hats, but the lack of them hardly diminishes the magical feel.

“Mr Courfeyrac,” Mrs Knight’s voice cuts through Courfeyrac’s dreamy gazing. “How good of you to finally delight us with your presence.”

He tries to steal a secret glance at his pocket watch, because he’s very sure Mrs Knight had told him nine o’clock, and he’s very sure it’s just five minutes shy of nine. He feels momentarily very stupid that he hasn’t turned up fifteen minutes earlier, if only to make a good impression. Well, no helping it now. He puts on what he hopes is a charming smile, and says, “Surely, you’ve not missed me _that_ much, since you have already begun the festivities without me.”

There’s a high-pitched laugh and Courfeyrac finally takes an overview of the dining room table, Mr and Mrs Knight each at one end, a safe distance between them to prevent them from acting out on their mutual dislike too much. He spots the Countess sitting next to Mrs Knight, her hair piled so high on top of her head that Courfeyrac has trouble distinguishing Grantaire who sits next to her and is looking decidedly flushed. There are two empty seats; one next to Mr Knight – and he’d like to avoid sitting next to him at all cost, if his pink nose and cheeks and the half empty wine decanter are anything to go by – and one in between two blond curly heads he doesn’t recognise, one of whom must surely be the owner of the infectious laughter that filled the room.

He sits down with his head held high. He can feel Mrs Knight’s angry stare from the head of the table and admonishes himself slightly. Wasn’t there some clause that if any participant acted against the rules he would be chucked out? Perhaps he should play by Mrs Knight’s scriptbook for a little while longer.

“Mr Courfeyrac, had you been down earlier you might have had the pleasure of being properly introduced to some of the other houseguests,” Mrs Knight says, her eyes still no more than splits. “On your right, Mr Enjolras, my darling nephew who has blessed us with his stay.”

Courfeyrac glances to his right and finds himself face to face with an angel. This angel must be one of the handsomest men Courfeyrac has ever seen, and briefly he thinks that this whole trip might be worth spending his entire life savings after all. There’s a slight scowl upon the angel’s brow, however, as though he’s annoyed by the disturbance Courfeyrac has brought with him. Courfeyrac looks away again.

“And to your left is the dear, dear daughter of a friend,” continues Mrs Knight after muttering mindlessly about Mr Enjolras for another minute. “Miss Cosette Fauchelevent.”

To his left, a young woman – mid-twenties if he were to hazard a guess – with a round face and even rounder hazel eyes that reveal a twinkle of amusement. She nods by way of curtsey and smiles warmly. It puts him at ease, and he decides that he likes her already. According to Mrs Knight, she’s the daughter of some local philanthropist who has recently settled in the area.

“When will the damned food arrive?” mutters Mr Knight to his left, bored. He pours the last of the wine from the decanter and chugs it down. Courfeyrac meets Grantaire’s eye and he can see a mix of bewilderment, amusement and abject horror cross Grantaire’s face all at once.

It’s as if Mr Knight is clairvoyant, because not a minute later, the doors are opened to reveal a host of servants, Monty Thomas among them, in yet a different gear (how quickly has he changed? Is this some kind of Magic Mike show where they rip off their outer layers to reveal another outfit? Will he be ripping off the next layer, too?), carrying in several platters of food and with an efficiency that exposes how much of a novice Courfeyrac is at this game, they set out the first course. It’s a pale, creamy soup with fillings he can’t quite make out. He toys his spoon around the liquid for a bit, but then decides to take the plunge. No time like the present, after all. And, besides, he’s quite hungry, because normally he’d be on his midnight snack by now and he hasn’t eaten since four o’clock. As he pours a spoonful of soup down his throat, he glances to his side to see that Enjolras’ plate is still empty.

Mrs Knight seems to catch his glance, because she puts down her spoon delicately. “My nephew prefers not to eat meat,” she says, rather hesitatingly, as though she fears the others’ reactions. “But I’m afraid we’re a little old-fashioned in our way, are we not, Mr Knight?” She looks across the table in hope of finding Mr Knight’s support, but he only has eyes for the wine decanter one of the servants brought in, and between sips he emits a disinterested “Quite, quite.” Mrs Knight looks displeased.

“I believe that my aunt disapproves of my modern ways,” says Mr Enjolras suddenly to the room at large. “She would prefer me to contribute to the downfall of our planet rather than disturb her dinner parties.”

Courfeyrac raises his brows. He had expected balls, cravats and perhaps a stroll in the rain that would lead to pneumonia and near-deadly fevers and to a subsequent offer of marriage from the love of his life. He had most definitely not expected a holiday play-acting at being Regency gentlemen including a discussion on the environment. He leans forward a little in his seat to see Mrs Knight’s reaction. To his immense pleasure, he can see she’s struggling to keep silence, as evidenced by the protruding vein on her forehead and her pursed lips.

“But surely, Mr Enjolras,” says Grantaire from across the table, “you don’t really belief that an individual person foregoing animal product will lead to the world being one big happy place?”

Courfeyrac gaze shifts from Grantaire to Mr Enjolras, whose face darkens instantly.

“I’m not saying it does,” replies Mr Enjolras. “But meat production is one of the biggest reasons why the earth is burning up, and I’m taking my responsibility and I hope to inspire others to do the same.”

“But what about big companies? Surely, they’ll keep on existing and polluting and what not. What difference is it going to make that you and I don’t eat meat every day of the week?” says Grantaire, leaning across the table.

“The big polluters are a different matter entirely and don’t think I’m not working to expose them. But while we’re working on that, we should also work on our own responsibility to make the world a better and more sustainable place. Just think how much of an impact it would have if the entire world were to halve their intake of animal products!” Mr Enjolras exclaims, his face thunderous.

Grantaire leans back in his seat, a derisive smile on his face. “And you’re single-handedly going to take care of making everybody stop eating meat?”

Besides him, Enjolras lets out a groan of frustration. “Of course not,” he manages to utter. “But at least I’m taking my responsibility and hoping to make the people around me do the same.” He shifts in his seat and leans eagerly forward, inclining his head to the side, looking closely at Grantaire for a few seconds. “Are you being deliberately obtuse? Or is that just your personality?”

There’s a gasp around the room. Even Mr Knight looks up eagerly from his second helping of soup. Grantaire’s mouth falls open, and Courfeyrac takes advantage of the few seconds it takes for Grantaire to recover from Enjolras’ harsh words, and puts down his spoon with an audible clink.

“Well, I think you’re both arguing the same thing,” he says. “We should do the best we personally can. So I won’t be eating meat.”

Mrs Knight’s face falls and in a split second he can see that she has taken her dislike of him to a new level. Mr Enjolras looks at him, a pleased but surprised smile on his face.

“Nor I,” says Miss Fauchelevent, putting down her spoon. Then, she leans a little towards Courfeyrac, and adds in a low tone, “I’ve been a vegetarian for ten years, excepting these kinds of dinners, thank god for you.”

There’s a reverberation of the sentiment throughout the room. Even the Countess puts down her spoon, a puzzled look on her face. “Ze soup was most delicious, Mrs Knight,” she says, “but I – unlike my fellow Frenchmen – know when I am beaten by ze English.”

Mrs Knight looks pale, but seems vaguely aware that there’s a compliment in there somewhere. She rings the bell and a servant enters. “Bring in any vegetable dishes, anything will do. We shan’t have any more meat. Bring bread and cheese and fruit, too. Dear heavens,” she says, looking flustered. “what a poor dinner this turns out to be.”

“It’s all the better for there being no meat, dear Aunt,” says Mr Enjolras in a consolatory voice, with a hint of amusement Courfeyrac suspects she won’t be able to detect.

With peace more or less restored – though Grantaire still looks troubled and Mr Enjolras takes great care to engage Mrs Knight or Courfeyrac in conversation rather than face Grantaire right across the table – the room is filled with a quiet prattle of Regency appropriate platitudes.

As though this actually is Hogwarts and there are fifty house-elves working away at dinner, the doors open again and a throng of servants hastily bring in an several dishes without meat. Everything is tasty, perfectly cooked and spiced and he says so to Mrs Knight, who seems to dislike him marginally less at hearing her ruined dinner spoken of so well. Wine flows amply and Courfeyrac finds he’s enjoying himself rather well. Apart from the ridiculous Mr Knight, the caricature regency matron Mrs Knight and the mysterious Countess Éponine, he finds that he likes Miss Fauchelevent and Enjolras – his neighbour had quickly told him to drop the formalities and to just call him Enjolras – more than he expected he would and he wonders which of them is supposed to be his Regency Soulmate. He rather thinks it won’t be Enjolras, as he glances between Enjolras and Grantaire who are determinedly not looking at each other. He won’t be surprised if he finds the two of them frolicking in the meadows beyond the house before the three weeks are over.

“Enjolras, dear,” Mrs Knight says, in an attempt to return to the script. “have you heard from your professor friend?”

Enjolras was just talking to Courfeyrac about carbon footprint, and seems almost annoyed to have to return his attention to his aunt. “He should be arriving tomorrow morning.”

“You must have noticed the empty chair besides my husband,” she says to everybody and nobody in particular. “A dear friend of my nephew was supposed to arrive today, but urgent business kept him in Oxford. He is a professor, and a dear man. Most clever, too. My nephew tells me that he is the authority on British literature, and he does us a great honour in coming here, I’m sure, because he can hardly be missed at Oxford.”

Courfeyrac’s heart skips a beat. So there’s another potential Darcy to arrive. And a literary one, too. This Regency gift keeps on giving. “How exciting,” he says.

Enjolras looks at him oddly, an expression Courfeyrac can’t for the life of him interpret. Enjolras turns to Mrs Knight again. “Well, Aunt, he’s pleased to come here, too. He has praised your extensive library many times,” he says.

Mrs Knight looks like the cat that got the cream and drinks a little more wine. “Oh tosh, Enjolras. We live humble lives here, you know that. I doubt that an Oxford professor finds us or our modest collection of books even moderately interesting.”

“I think you do Combeferre a great deal of injustice, and yourselves besides,” Enjolras says, smiling.

Courfeyrac’s heart stops and he nearly chokes on a piece of cauliflower that’s stuck in the back of his throat. He drops his knife audibly and everybody’s eyes are upon him in a split second. He desperately hopes, wants, needs to have misheard Enjolras, but he knows he hasn’t. He can try to fool himself by telling himself that surely Combeferre, if not a common name, isn’t _un_common either. And that there surely are multiple Combeferre’s who read literature at Oxford. But he knows that it’s no use.

He coughs twice and he manages to clear his airway. Then he refills his wine glass and chugs it down in one go. He smiles reassuringly at the rest of the company.

Basically? He’s fucked.


	4. A picnic

**Chapter Four  
** _Nothing was wanting but to be happy when they got there._

The rest of the dinner passes in a haze of genteel Regency-appropriate prattle and it seems he does a good job of pretending to be emotionally present, because after the cauliflower incident, nobody asks. But when he’s in bed later that evening – he hasn’t got a clue how he found his own way through the maze of corridors and identical rooms – he can’t even recall what they talked about or what the dinner consisted of. There’s only one thing he remembers: Combeferre. Combeferre. He gulps down a glass of the brandy by the bedside table, probably more than he should, considering how much he’s had already throughout the day, but it helps him settle once he falls down on top off his sheets, gazing up at the painted galaxy. There are memories in his head and fighting them means fighting sleep, and fighting sleep means he’ll be ruminating all night long. There’s no use. He drifts off to sleep with Combeferre’s name lingering on his lips, sweet like the taste of brandy.

*

When he wakes up, his head feels heavy and groggy and for the barest second, he doesn’t know where he is, until he recognises the heavy curtains draped around the bed. He must’ve had the presence of mind to untie his cravat the night before, because as far as he knows, he hasn’t been strangled during his sleep.

Reluctantly, he climbs out of bed and heads to the bathroom before remembering that he’s in a fucking Regency roleplay and that he’ll probably have to make do with a swim in the sea to get clean. He shakes his head at himself. To think that yesterday, his greatest worry consisted of wanting to fuck the servant instead of a Mr Darcy.

The park surrounding the house is bathed in a warm glow from the sun that’s just peeking out over the horizon, and he figures it can’t be much later than seven. For a brief moment he feels a jolt of panic. He doesn’t want to be alone with his thoughts. He retrieves his phone from underneath his pillow where he left it yesterday. _Marius, I don’t know what to do. He’s going to be here_, he types, and he’s ready to hit send when he realises that it’s Sunday and that Marius will most likely be still in bed. He erases the message and buries his phone beneath the pillow again.

It’s not that he blames anyone for the things that happened in the past. His parents were only ever looking out for his best interests, and he knows that they must have recognised that Courfeyrac needed a buzz from the world, more so than Combeferre could provide him with, that he could’ve done great things. That he didn’t do them isn’t anyone’s fault but his own – he simply got stuck in familiarity and in what felt like five minutes, five whole years had passed by him, and he found himself slumped in his desk chair, asking himself: what was it all for?

Well – it wasn’t if his life _after _Combeferre had been shit entirely. There were friends and experiences and other loves. But now with the prospect of facing him once again – for the first time since their break – he knows that the old adage of _first love cuts deepest_ is true. Yeah, if there’s anybody to be blamed, it should be himself for being weak and listening to reason even though every fibre in his body screamed at him to follow his gut.

He closes his eyes. Three deep breaths. In and out. It’s _nobody’s _fault, he admonishes himself for his harshness towards his younger self. _You were only twenty-two. Who’s to say it would’ve worked. You’ve been happy, more or less. _He can feel his pulse slowing down as more and more oxygen starts flowing through his veins. _You’re simply going to have to face it, you’re strong enough. _

He drags his backpack from the wardrobe and searches for his copy of _The Captain’s Valour_ by Rowan Kennedy. He loves Jane Austen’s books, of course – but there’s nothing that can equal his love for two oblivious sailors falling in love on a boat, and it’s been his go to comfort blanket for the past three years, since it was published. He sits down in the windowsill and loses track of time as the sun rises across the sky and Captain Laurence and Lieutenant Robins bob across the Atlantic.

It could’ve been five minutes, or an hour, or half the day for all Courfeyrac thinks and cares (he could just about do with skipping the next three weeks entirely), and there’s a curt knock on his bedroom door followed by a surprised looking Monty.

“I woke early,” Courfeyrac says by way of explanation. Monty has brought in a jug of hot water and after he has allowed Courfeyrac some privacy in which to rub some soap into his skin, he returns to dress Courfeyrac for the morning. Courfeyrac asks him particularly for the red coat, because he could do with a confidence booster; so when he’s all buttoned-up and looking at his own reflection, he can feel his heart thump loudly in his chest, but it’s not a bad thump. It’s a _you can own this_ thump and the interested glance Monty gives him in the mirror doesn’t hurt his confidence either.

He makes his way down to the breakfast room. He surprises himself by being able to recognise the way to the dining room _and _the drawing room by himself, and he thinks the breakfast room can’t be that far off. He ambles through the corridor, opening a door here and there (he finds a bright yellow room with a huge LED flatscreen TV that he needs to remember) before he’s drawn to a deep voice not far off. He’s only just unable to distinguish the words and a deep curiosity spreads over him. He walks a little closer.

“_No_, you can’t leave me here on my own. You promised – No, I _can’t _make him go away. You just – _no _– You just have to face it. – What would I tell my aunt? I don’t like it here anymore than you do – _Come on_ please, Ferre. You said you’d do it and – no, I _know_, but – He’s actually not that bad, he’s nice and kind of funny? – _Christ, Combeferre _– Just come, please?”

Suddenly, Courfeyrac’s heart is thumping again – the bad sort of thumping, this time – as he recognises Enjolras’ voice, and that it’s Combeferre on the other line of the phone and that it’s _him_, Courfeyrac, they must be talking about. He turns to back away slowly, but he walks into an unfortunately placed umbrella stand and it clatters to the ground. Enjolras’s voice dies out and Courfeyrac can hear footsteps coming towards him. What in Jane Austen’s name did he do to deserve this?

He screws up his face in what he hopes is an expression of apology as Enjolras comes into view, a frown on his face and his hand covering the receiver on his mobile phone. 

“I wasn’t eavesdropping, I swear,” Courfeyrac says. He instantly wants to slap himself for saying something so stupid. “I just eh… was checking out these umbrellas. I was thinking of taking a walk.” 

He hastily rearranges the umbrella stand and picks each of them up from the floor, planting a half-hearted attempt at a smile on his face. His head is a steady chorus of _fuck, fuck, fuck._

Enjolras is still staring at him and remains silent a beat too long. Courfeyrac can feel his face redden. 

“It’s not raining?” Enjolras offers finally.

Courfeyrac feels like impaling himself with one of the umbrellas. Perhaps the one with the frilly pink lace. “No-o-o-o…” he says, slowly. “But it might… later? I was going to get breakfast first?”

Enjolras cocks an eyebrow and shakes his head a little. “Breakfast room is over there,” he points at one of the few doors Courfeyrac hasn’t tried yet. Then, he turns away and continues his phone conversation.

“Yeah, Ferre, I’m taking that back, this man is completely _mad_.”

It takes him a few minutes to regain his composure and make his skin return to its natural shade and temperature. He enters the breakfast room, but his mind is still too full of being caught out by Enjolras to take in its splendour. He’s the first person there, so he grabs a plate and absent-mindedly fills it with this and that, and sits down at the big table. He wishes briefly that he had brought his book with him, but before too long the door swings open to reveal Grantaire stomping in, looking flustered, followed quickly by Enjolras whose face looks more or less composed, excepting the nervous twitch of his eye.

Before he can catch Grantaire’s eye and find out what the redness in his cheek is all about, the rest of the party come flocking to the breakfast room like a moth to a flame, and suddenly the entire room is filled with a soft and steady prattle.

Courfeyrac’s eyes fall upon Mrs Knight, and they widen with shock. She can’t be serious, Courfeyrac thinks. This must all be one big joke. He scans the room to see if there’s any hidden cameras, because he wonders suddenly if he hasn’t been tricked into participating on _Ex on the 200-year-old Regency Estate_. She’s wearing the most ridiculous lime green dress with so much lace covering her chest and neck that Courfeyrac doesn’t wonder at her being so uptight. Her head looks like a powdered poodle has been gently placed upon it. Courfeyrac looks around the room, but nobody else seems to notice that they’ve stepped into the latest adaptation of _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory_.

Mrs Knight nibbles on a tiny bite of toast and then _hum hum_s softly, but insistently. The chatter dies down and they all look at her. Still, to Courfeyrac’s surprise, nobody laughs. Either everybody has perfect self-control, or he’s losing his fucking mind. “As it is _such _a fine day out,” Mrs Knight says, “we thought that we might enjoy the sun and take a picknick.”

There’s a happy murmur around the room. “I’ve had cook and the servants organise some delicious things and there’s a particularly lovely spot in the grounds that I think you will all admire. But I shan’t tell you any more yet.” She smiles sweetly. “And if my information is correct, the final member of our party will join us very shortly indeed.” She looks at Enjolras, and Courfeyrac thinks he hears a note of warning behind her high tone of voice.

“Erm, yes, Aunt,” Enjolras replies. “Combeferre said he would arrive late in the afternoon. Around four.” He glances ever so briefly at Courfeyrac, but looks away instantly.

Alright, alright. So he has about seven hours until he has to face him. He can do that. He forces down some more toast, but there’s a shaky feeling in his stomach and it won’t budge.

“How delightful,” Mrs Knight croons. She puts down her porcelain cup and stands up from the chair. Everyone around her follows suit. “I shall retire for a short while and I shall see you over by the pond at, say, around ten thirty? Yes? Very well. Then we shall proceed to the spot together.”

She sweeps out of the room, a haze of bright green satin that flashes in front of Courfeyrac’s eyes like the beginning of a migraine. After she’s gone, things feel more awkward. It’s no great surprise. They’re five strangers in Regency getup eating breakfast with each other as if they’ve known each other their whole life.

“Miss Fauchelevent,” Courfeyrac starts, after minutes have gone by without anyone saying anything, just the sound of knifes on plates filling the room. “I understand you have visited Godmersham Park before. Could you not give us a hint at what sort of place we’re to expect? Mrs Knight is very mysterious.”

Cosette takes a second to answer. “Don’t worry, Mr Courfeyrac,” she says. She looks straight at Éponine Thenardier, who’s sitting right across from her, and then let’s her gaze glide back to Courfeyrac. She smiles softly. “I shan’t give up Mrs Knight’s secret, but it’s _very_ romantic.”

Courfeyrac can feel the hint of a blush spread to his cheeks, and he looks down at his plate again. So it’s supposed to be _her_.

All of a sudden, the Countess speaks up. Courfeyrac hasn’t heard her speak the entire morning and her French accent startles him a little. “Mademoiselle Fauchelevent,” she says, leaning slightly forward in her chair. There’s a determined glint in her eyes that makes Courfeyrac wonder what depths lie beneath them. “Do not you think zat a spot you would call romantic, should be shared by lovers only, rather zan an entire group of strangers?”

“Surely, there’s nothing more helpful for growing attached to strangers than a beautiful bit of landscape?” Cosette replies, her gaze focussed on the Countess. “Particularly if one is looking to encourage courtship,” she adds, dropping her eyes and looking through the room from under her eyelashes.

“That is why we’re all here, aren’t we?” offers Grantaire.

There’s a huff of laughter coming from the other side of the table. They all look up and see Enjolras looking highly amused at the spectacle. “Well, I’m not.”

“Why are you here, then?” Grantaire asks.

“My aunt asked me, so I came.”

“I didn’t have you down as the sort to obey commands,” says Grantaire, folding his arms in front of his chest and leaning backwards in his chair.

“You presume to know me? On what basis?” Enjolras retorts, furrowing his brow.

Grantaire’s expression falters for a second, but then he takes heart. “Well, I quote: ‘I won’t be courting anyone, least of all that pathetic writer guy, because somebody tells me to’”

Ouch.

Enjolras’ eyebrows shoot up so high they might as well jump out of his face. “That was a private conversation. You have no business listening to my private conversations. Nobody does.” He’s suddenly looking straight at Courfeyrac. Shit. Courfeyrac and Grantaire catch each other’s eye.

Miss Fauchelevent lays a hand gently on Enjolras’ arm. “Come now, Mr Enjolras,” she says, a note of warning within her voice. “We don’t want to scare your aunt’s guests off when they’ve not even been here twenty-four hours. I’m sure they meant no disrespect.” 

Enjolras lets out a breath. Grantaire is red in the face. The Countess’ left eye twitches. Courfeyrac is sure there is a bead of sweat dripping down the side of his own face.

“Well, ehm,” Courfeyrac says, quite desperate to, perhaps against his own better judgement, fill the silence again. “I don’t know about courting, but surely a picknick will help us get to know each other better?”

Miss Fauchelevent treats him to a broad smile, her eyes glittering with joy and just the tiniest hint of amusement. “Thank you, Mr Courfeyrac,” she says emphatically. “See, Mr Courfeyrac understands what this houseparty is all about. Let’s strive to getting to know each other better. And if that results in any sort of courtship, well, then, that’s just a bonus, isn’t it?”

*

An hour later, they’re walking across the house grounds together. It’s turned into a bright and sunny morning and Courfeyrac is already wondering when it will be socially acceptable to take off his warm coat. The only change he’s made in his outfit is that he added a small chainwatch so he can check on how long he still has before Combeferre will turn up. Right now, he has five hours and forty-three minutes left.

He’s following behind, watching the rest of the group try and make conversation, and looking across the park. Mrs Knight and Cosette hadn’t lied; Courfeyrac has seldom seen a place this beautiful. There are still blossoms on the trees, the grass is fresh and bright green (not dissimilar to Mrs Knight’s dress), and the sun gives of such a lovely glow, that Courfeyrac feels like he’s sure he’ll be able to handle seeing Combeferre again.

The rest of the group are walking slightly ahead of him; Cosette and Her Great Ladyship, deep in conversation, heading the party. They must have met before, Courfeyrac thinks. They look like they’re fast friends. Behind the two women are Grantaire and Enjolras, the silence between them deafening as each of them pretends to admire the landscape around them. It seems like Enjolras still hasn’t forgiven either of them for their accidental eavesdropping. But then, Courfeyrac thinks, he’s an idiot for saying all those things where any person might hear them.

Suddenly, Grantaire glances over his shoulder and stands still until Courfeyrac catches up with him. There’s a frown on his forehead.

“Are you alright?” he asks. 

Courfeyrac puts on a smile and tucks away his watch (five hours and thirty-three minutes). “Yeah, of course!” he exclaims. “You? You seem to have made a great friend in Enjolras,” he says with a nod to the blonde disappearing further away from them.

Grantaire lets out a deep sigh. “Tell me about it. I’ve never met anybody with such a thick stick up his arse.”

Courfeyrac nearly chokes with laughter. “That’s a mental image I didn’t expect to have to see, ever.”

Suddenly, he notices Grantaire’s notebook sticking out of his coat pocket. “So you’re doing research, right? Got anything good yet?"

Grantaire absently pats his pocket. “Um, yeah, well. So far it’s been ditching out the fish soup because we want the earth to still be habitable next century and that might be _slightly _anachronistic to put in a novel about the actual Regency era. My readers would _kill _me.”

“You never know. Catherine Morland would definitely have been a vegetarian. Elizabeth Bennet would walk in a climate strike with witty signs.”

“‘Are the shades of Pemberley to be thus polluted’ just got a different meaning.”

He can hear a low rumble somewhere behind them, coming steadily closer, and he and Grantaire turn around at the same time.

“_Jesus fuck” _Courfeyrac breathes.

“Where the fuck did we end up?” There’s a note of desperation in Grantaire’s voice as they both gaze out across the park.

The source of the rumbling noise are two small golf carts bounding across the lawn at top speed. The first with two of the maids and the hot servant, Monty. The second is little more than a flash of baby blue sitting behind the steering wheel, which can only be Mrs Knight with her customary determined face. Next to her sits the rotund form of Mr Knight, who looks distinctly more relaxed than one might expect from somebody in a golf cart going twenty miles per hour.

“I’m…” Grantaire trails off. “I’m honestly not sure whether I’m even remotely surprised or not.”

Courfeyrac shakes his head, gazing at the two golf carts disappearing into the distance. Either the rest of their group haven’t noticed anything, or they are used to the spectacle and just ignoring it.

“Did you know that there are actually working toilets?” Grantaire continues, when Courfeyrac doesn’t reply. “None of that bedpan shit. My valet told me.”

“Thank the lord,” Courfeyrac sighs. “I was wondering about that. I found a room with a TV, too.”

“Oh, great,” says Grantaire, sounding delighted. “The downside of going on this trip was missing my TV shows, so this just fixes everything. Well, mostly everything. I’m still hoping I didn’t throw away good money to get away with literally no new material for my novel.”

“What’s your novel about? Maybe I’ve read it.” Courfeyrac says.

A blush spreads across Grantaire’s cheek. “Um, well, it’s not really that good. And it’s kind of a niche genre. Like, really niche. You wouldn’t know it.”

Courfeyrac knows enough not to pursue the subject. “But come on,” he grins. “You’re not going to tell me you’re here _just _for research.” He nods towards the rest of the group. There’s an increasing distance between the two of them.

“Who with? Mr Stick Up Your Arse? I don’t think so.” Then after a second, he adds, “But there’s another person coming, right? Mr, what was it again – Comfort?”

“Combeferre,” Courfeyrac supplies. It feels as though there’s an elastic band around his heart and it’s just snapped tight. He hadn’t thought that Combeferre might take up with one of the others. The thought hurts him more than he wants to admit to himself.

Grantaire looks sharply to the side, but Courfeyrac is careful to keep his face neutral. “I overheard Enjolras talking,” he explains nonchalantly.

“But yeah, serious answer to your question. Aren’t we all here for something more?” Grantaire looks out across the lawn with an almost wistful expression on his face. “Honestly, this Mr Comfort is going to have to be great if they want to get me proposing marriage before the holiday is over.”

Courfeyrac barks out a laugh and comforts the pain in his chest with the thought that if _he _can’t have Combeferre, Grantaire is more than deserving of him.

They arrive at their destination - it can hardly be missed. A small neoclassical round temple on the top of a hill, and just beside it a miniature version of the drawing room they had left earlier that morning, complete with rugs, tables, satin-covered chairs and gold candelabras holding fake candles. It’s as if somebody copy-pasted their Sims interior into the garden.

Enjolras, Cosette and Éponine have already taken their seats, and the happy couple Mr and Mrs Knight are sitting as far from each other as possible, not looking at each other. Courfeyrac glances at his pocketwatch before taking a seat next to Cosette (five hours and twelve minutes), so that he can at least enjoy some shade from her parasol. She noticed his intention and shifts it so that they’re both completely covered by it. It’s a relief, but he’s still desperate to get the layers of clothes off him.

“Good grief, Mariah, poor the tea, you imbecile girl!” he hears Mrs Knight snap to one of the serving girls. As she hands round cups of hot tea (Courfeyrac wants ice cubes, pronto), he catches her eye and smiles apologetically.

It seems that Mrs Knight is in no mood to be pleasant; not to the staff, but not to her guests either. As Grantaire scoops a sugar cube from a porcelain bowl, she leans a little forward and says, with a fake smile pasted on her face, “Well… Mr Grantaire, how _fortunate _you must feel. I doubt you’d be able to afford sugar on a daily basis on the proceedings from your writing." 

Grantaire’s mouth falls open and closes again, like a fish. None of the others reply.

“You see,” continues Mrs Knight, leaning slightly towards the Countess, “Mr Grantaire has written a novel.” She gives a short, high laugh that makes Courfeyrac’s blood boil. “Now that’s all well and good for a gentleman of means, of course,” she says emphatically, “but if one’s bread and butter depends upon it…" 

The Countess nods, the elegant coiffure on her head bobbing up and down, her eyes gliding appraisingly over Grantaire’s form. “You are very right, Madame Knight,” she says. “In France it is ze leisure activity of ze rich and comfortable. I see it must not be so with ze English. Monsieur Grantaire - I should consider ‘im selfish. But you are most lucky to find yourself in such good company and in such a _magnifique _house,” she adds, looking straight at him.

Courfeyrac can see Grantaire flush bright red. “What the fuck?” he mutters under his breath. Cosette hears him, because she nudges him in the ribs ever so slightly. “It’s all part of the game, sort of,” she whispers from behind her raised teacup. 

Mrs Knight feigns coyness and pats the lady on her arm with her frilly fan. “Oh, heavens, Lady Thénardier, us, in our humble little home? That’s nothing. Although,” leaning a little closer and continuing in an audible whisper, “I did tell my housekeeper to keep the valuable silver under lock and key. You can’t trust these writer types.”

Before Courfeyrac can object to this, Enjolras sits up a little straighter and says, a slight pink hue spreading across his cheeks, “Perhaps, Aunt, you have not considered that Mr Grantaire might possess talent? And I somehow doubt that Mr Grantaire came here with the sole purpose of stealing your silver. _I _shouldn’t’ dream of accusing my own guests.”

There’s a look of thunder on Mrs Knight’s face and Cosette besides him gasps audibly. 

Then, she starts smiling sweetly. “Oh dear Enjolras,” she laughs, “you are so quick to overreact when you think there’s a miscarriage of justice. I was merely, er, hypothesizing.”

Nobody looks remotely satisfied, but they all know it’s wisest to change the subject. Courfeyrac looks surreptitiously at his watch. Just under five hours. He can do this.

The group falls back into mild chatter and Courfeyrac is relieved when the servants bring out hordes of cakes and other sweet things so he has something to occupy himself with. He’s afraid he’s not as charming a conversational partner as he’d want to be to Miss Fauchelevent. But she seems to understand there’s something bothering him, because she mostly just prattles on about her father and his work and her acquaintance with the Knights and Enjolras, without expecting a reply from him in return. She really is an angel. After an hour or so, Lady Thénardier and Cosette decide to take a walk around the park to awaken their stiffened limbs, and Grantaire falls into the empty chair besides him.

“Jesus,” he says.

“Yep.” Courfeyrac replies.

“I don’t know why I didn’t say anything.”

Courfeyrac shifts in his seat to face Grantaire. “Well, it was pretty nasty what she said about you. Even if it _was _all part of a character you’re supposed to be playing. I wouldn’t know how to respond either.”

Grantaire huffs. “I only wish it were a character I’m playing and that it didn’t hit home that hard. I just wish I’d said something,” he says, balling his fists in his lap. “Instead of having _him _defend me.” He glances over at Enjolras, who’s in conversation with his aunt, looking like he wants to die.

Courfeyrac frowns. “I thought it was rather kind. Unexpected, even. Maybe he took that stick out.” He looks out across the park and sees the shapes of Éponine and Cosette moving slowly in the distance.

“I wouldn’t count on it. He gave me a couple of thunderous looks after. Probably means to tell me that he only contradicted her because he likes contradicting her instead of defending me.” Grantaire says.

“I don’t know…” Courfeyrac says doubtfully, looking closely at Enjolras. He seems to notice his glance, because he whips his head around and stares him dead in the eye for all of three seconds before quickly looking away again. The man is a mystery, Courfeyrac thinks.

“I just wish I’d be able to get out some Regency appropriate language instead of just wanting to say ‘fuck’ all the time. I’m probably too sober right now to be here.”

Courfeyrac laughs. “Just chuck in an ‘indeed’ after every three words and you’ll sound like your regular old Mr Darcy.”

“Fuck, indeed.”

“That’s better.”

Grantaire suddenly sits up a little straighter. “Who’s that with the ladies?”

Courfeyrac’s heart starts hammering inside of his chest as he follows Grantaire’s gaze. Sure enough, a third person seems to have joined the strolling party, and worst is, they appear to be moving back in their direction.

Fuck. Fuck. The air in Courfeyrac’s chest seems to have disappeared. He glances at the pocketwatch. But there were supposed to be almost four hours of mental preparation time left.

Way too soon, Lady Thénardier, Cosette and the male figure which he knows is going to be Combeferre are nearing the miniature drawing room. He wishes he was back in his office with Marius writing stupid articles and wasting away his life. But it’s no use. Combeferre looks amazing. He’s dressed in a smart navy-coloured suit and there’s a tiny pair of round glasses perched on his nose that don’t even detract from his general handsomeness. There’s a slight stubble on his cheeks and his hair is tousled from the wind. He looks older, but better, and still quintessentially Combeferre.

“Look who we found on our walk by the pond,” Cosette exclaims. She has her arm linked with Combeferre’s as she shows him off around their little salon. Combeferre smiles charmingly and exchanges a glance with Enjolras before looking around the group.

When his eyes fall upon Courfeyrac, the smile drops from his face.

Fuck, _indeed_.


	5. worse than strangers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Combeferre appears and things are fine. Really. They're fine.

God. So this is it, then, Courfeyrac thinks. One glance at him and then _nothing_. Not even the tiniest nod of recognition. Just that broad smile dropping as soon as their eyes locked. That’s put him in his place, then.

He doesn’t know what he expected. Certainly not that Combeferre would see him and immediately fall to his knees in some romantic gesture, or something along that romcom line. But he had at least expected Combeferre to acknowledge him and the past they shared. He’s nothing to Combeferre now.

The sun has risen to the top of the sky and is burning down on their impromptu outdoors dining room with a ferocity that makes Courfeyrac tug at his stifling cravat in annoyance. (The fact that he’s broken out in a sweat and that his heartbeat has skyrocketed definitely doesn’t have anything to do with Combeferre’s sudden proximity; as he had already concluded: they’re nothing to each other now.) Grantaire catches his eye while Combeferre is being introduced to their group by Mrs Knight, and smiles a little, waggling his eyebrows playfully. Courfeyrac manages to smile back at him, and thinks back to their earlier conversation about Grantaire’s future seduction of ‘Mr Comfort’.

He’s worried that everybody around him notices his awkwardness, so as soon as the introductions are done and Combeferre is making small talk with Grantaire next to him, Courfeyrac turns to Cosette and they have an animated chat for a while. Not for one second does Courfeyrac stop following Combeferre’s every movement from the corner of his eye, but he finds that Cosette is easy to talk and laugh with, and the violent beating of his heart slows down to a more comfortable tempo.

“Mr Combeferre, I am _so _delighted that you have joined us _at last_” says Mrs Knight suddenly, in such a loud tone of voice that it’s immediately clear that she expects everybody’s attention. So they’re back to playacting again, Courfeyrac thinks briefly, catching Cosette’s amused eye. “We were almost despairing of you.”

Combeferre looks uncomfortably at Mrs Knight. “Um, well, I was loaded up on work, and—”

“Ahhh, _yes_,” exclaims Mrs Knight. “You are a scholar. Should we call you Professor Combeferre, then?” she adds, with a high-pitched laugh that makes Courfeyrac’s blood curdle. Honestly. Can she not?

“Just Combeferre is fine?” he says hesitantly. Mrs Knight’s eyes are suddenly thunderous at the suggestion they drop any formalities. “No, um, I mean, _Mr _is fine, of course.”

“How did you become a professor, Mr Combeferre?” Cosette asks. Courfeyrac wants to slap her for drawing Combeferre’s attention so close to himself. It takes everything he has to just look vaguely across the circle to avoid looking directly at Combeferre.

“Oh, well,” Combeferre says, pushing the horn-rimmed glasses a little further up. “Let me see. It was a few years ago. Eight years, in fact. A lot was changing in my life around then, in 2011, and I decided to attend a conference in Canada, just as a change of scenery, I guess. Well, anyway, there I met a professor who oddly enough had been teaching at Cambridge all the time I’d been studying there, but we’d never met – weird how those things go, right? – and it turned out we had a lot of common interests and once we got back he encouraged me to apply for a PhD and it all happened from that moment onward.”

“What ies it exactly you do as a professor?” the Countess says in her drawling accent.

Combeferre laughs, and Courfeyrac recognises it as his I’m-so-uncomfortable-right-now-laugh. His heartbeat quickens again. Christ. “Mostly teaching, which I think is a joy – no, honestly,” he adds when Grantaire scoffs, slightly turning towards him, “I do enjoy it.” (And Courfeyrac knows he does) “And then after that, I do a lot of research and writing.”

Lady Thénardier’s curiosity has not been satisfied yet. “And what ies it you write? And research?”

“Late 19th century and early 20th century literature, mostly,” Combeferre says.

“It’s funny,” Enjolras says, and Courfeyrac, who’s still determinedly casually studying the patterns on his china cup, has the distinct feeling that Enjolras is looking at him. “Because Com- _Mr _Combeferre, I mean – used to tell me how people used to tell him researching literature would get him nowhere, that there was no career in it. And look where he’s now.”

To Combeferre’s credit, there’s a heightened colour in his brown cheeks as he turns to glower at Enjolras.

Grantaire looks from Combeferre to Enjolras to Courfeyrac, and Courfeyrac goes back to admiring the china, hoping desperately that the beating of his heart isn’t audible to anybody but himself.

“How interesting,” the Countess says, at the same time as Mrs Knight’s disgusted exclamation. “I’m sure there’s no need to talk about anything so _vulgar _as careers,” she spits out, as though it’s a dirty word and she regrets even having asked Combeferre.

“I wish I had a career to speak of,” mumbles Cosette beside him. It takes him by such surprise that he barks out a laugh. Cosette glances at him, her mouth a thin line of barely supressed laughter, her eyes sparkling. “You weren’t really supposed to hear that, Mr Courfeyrac.”

“Well, you whisper pretty loudly. What is it you do, anyway?” he asks, suddenly realising that he doesn’t know anything about this woman who’s supposed to be – or at least he thinks she’s supposed to be – his Elizabeth Bennet.

One of the servants pours him a new cup of coffee and he nods his thanks.

Cosette lifts up her chin and closes her eyes, looking at him from under her lashes. “Sewing, mainly,” she says tartly. “Housekeeping. Overseeing the menus. Writing letters.”

“How taxing,” he replies, settling the coffee cup on his knee and slowly stirring in a spoonful of sugar.

“The birds tell me that you’re something of a rake, Mr Courfeyrac,” Cosette says, ignoring his jibe.

Courfeyrac scoffs. “Your birds are better informed than I. I thought being a rake would involve being brutally successful at seducing other people.”

“I take it you’re not?” Cosette asks.

Courfeyrac cocks an eyebrow in reply. “I think Mrs Knight means me to be the mildly pathetic rogue who squanders his family inheritance, who can only be saved by the love of a good woman (tm),” he adds, making air quotes with his fingers.

Cosette tuts. “Mr Courfeyrac,” she says despairingly. “Talking of money is _incredibly _vulgar, did you not hear Mrs Knight?”

“Oh, I believe she’s hard to _not _hear.”

Cosette breaks out into a giggle, and Courfeyrac looks briefly at the rest of the group, noticing that their mutual laughter has drawn the curious glances of several other people. Lady Thénardier’s lips are pursed disapprovingly (no doubt a stickler for propriety; Courfeyrac hates her already), but Grantaire winks at him when they catch each other’s eye. Combeferre is looking straight at him with an indescribable expression on his face. 

“I work in a bookshop,” Cosette says suddenly after a minute or so.

“Pardon?” Courfeyrac’s glance is wrenched back from slyly looking at Combeferre by pretending to stare at the swans lolling in the pond just over Combeferre’s shoulder.

“A bookshop. And I do this, three or four times a year. ” She replies, studying his face intently for a second. “Of course, _here _I’m a good and proper young lady with an enormous inheritance. But I have this feeling that the whole proper Regency aspect of this particular session is already kind of…” she trails off.

“Yeah,” Courfeyrac says. “I get what you mean. I was talking to Grantaire earlier about it too. I think some of the magic wore off when I found a huge flatscreen TV somewhere in a hidden room.”

Cosette looks delighted. “Oh, goody. It takes most participants about two weeks to find out that this is just a functioning house. For the most part, at least. God,” she sighs, raising her eyes to the sky. “I don’t think I’d be able to do this for three months every year if I couldn’t keep up with my TV shows.”

“That’s funny. Grantaire said the same thing.”

They both shift in their seats to look at him as he’s chatting pleasantly to Combeferre.

“I wonder what kinds of shows he watches,” Cosette wonders aloud. “CSI? I could see him enjoying the grisly deaths.”

Courfeyrac shakes his head. “Nah, if it’s murder, and I’m not saying it is, it would _definitely _be Midsomer Murders.”

Cosette grins at him, and Courfeyrac holds up his hands in defeat. “I’m sorry, I don’t make the rules.”

“Maybe he watches Glee.”

Courfeyrac narrows his eyes. “I feel like there’s some judgement in that statement and I’ll have you know that I, Mr Courfeyrac, broke rake that I am, _adore _Glee.”

Cosette rolls her eyes and sighs. “I can see why you’d need the love of a good woman to change your ways.” As soon as the words leave her mouth, a blush spreads across her cheeks and her gaze flickers across the group before resting on her gloved hands in her lap. “Not that – erm, I.. O, God.” 

Courfeyrac laughs and raises an eyebrow. “I _thought_ you were written as my endgame. Besides my rakishness and squandering my inheritance, my other talent is that I have an eye for that sort of thing.”

“Do you?”

“Yep,” he replies, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “I have never been wrong about any relationship in my life – pseudo-fictional or otherwise. Well, except my own, maybe. But usually I spot potential soulmates about three years before they themselves do.”

“That’s quite a claim,” Cosette says, smiling into her teacup. “And you’re sure that you’ve never been wrong?”

“A thousand per cent,” he grins.

“So what are your predictions, then?” she asked with a nod towards the other participants. Lady Thénardier is exchanging a sentence every five minutes with Mrs Knight, Grantaire and Combeferre seem to be enjoying themselves, and Enjolras is talking to his uncle, looking as though he’d rather be on a different planet. “Mr Combeferre and Mr Grantaire, maybe?” 

“Oh, _no_.” He exclaims, turning in his seat to stare incredulously in his seat. “Firstly, I don’t think Grantaire’s Combeferre’s type. Secondly,” he adds pointedly, “it’s perfectly obvious that before the week’s out we’ll discover Grantaire and Enjolras frolicking around in the stables.”

It’s Cosette’s turn to be incredulous. “Enjolras? Ab-so-lute-ly not. I’ve known him since I was three and I think I may be trusted to know that Grantaire – cute as he may be – is not Enjolras’ type.”

“He is.” Courfeyrac asserts. “I’d be perfectly happy to bet on you with this,” he says confidently.

“I thought you had already gambled your parents’ money away,” Cosette replies, not missing a beat.

“Ah.. yes,” he draws his fingers across his chin in a thoughtful gesture. “But, you see, that’s where _you _come in, with your inheritance and your goodness.”

“So I’d be betting with my own money. That seems useless.” After a second, Cosette continues. “So, according to your faultless predictions, that covers Grantaire, Enjolras, you and me. Which would leave Combeferre and Éponine.”

“On first name terms with her majesty?” He cocks an eyebrow at her, at which she wrinkles her nose. He knows that at least this prediction can’t be right, because as far as he knows, Combeferre is only into men. So there’s no need for his heart to start hammering again at the mention of his name. But he doesn’t mind leaving Cosette with the impression that those two might hit it off. “Sure, why not?”

It doesn’t look like Cosette’s convinced.

Later, when they’re walking back to the house, Courfeyrac is really starting to feel the effects of the sun and the copious amounts of brandy he’d had during the afternoon. He’s broken out into a sweat and he doesn’t care if it’s not seemly; he’s definitely ditching the coat.

He’s trailing a little behind the rest of the group, which is headed by Cosette, Éponine and Enjolras. Somewhere in the middle are Combeferre and Grantaire, and behind that is Courfeyrac himself. Mrs Knight, Mr Knight and their merry band of servants have already scooted off in their golf carts. He briefly regrets not forcing himself into one of them too, no matter Mrs Knight’s reckless driving. It must be at least a mile back to the house. Or ten, maybe. He’s not such a good judge of distance, but it’s already been twenty minutes and the house doesn’t look much closer than it did when they started out their journey.

“…hadn’t told me that…”

His interest is immediately peaked at the realisation that Combeferre and Grantaire are gossiping and that they don’t know they’re at risk of being overheard by curious, innocent passers-by. He picks up his pace a little to come within earshot, but just enough so it won’t look like he’s listening in.

“I think he’s a great guy, actually.” It’s Grantaire speaking, and Courfeyrac wonders whether they’re talking about Enjolras and Grantaire’s budding attraction for him.

Combeferre ‘hmmph’s.

“But I guess that it’s weird that he didn’t tell me he knew you.” Grantaire’s voice sounds a little doubtful.

Combeferre looks sharply to the side. “He didn’t?”

“No. Even though there was plenty of opportunity to do so.”

With a dawning sense of realisation washing over him, he wonders how he could’ve been so oblivious. Of course they’re talking about _him_. He inches closer, despite his better judgement. Now he’s here, he should just hear it.

After a minute or so, Combeferre replies. His voice is almost casual, but there’s a cutting edge to it that strikes Courfeyrac right in the heart. “Whatever, it doesn’t matter anyway. It’s a long time ago. And to be honest, he seems to be a completely different person now. If I’d come across him on the street, I doubt I’d have recognised him.”

Courfeyrac stops in his tracks, his breathing pitched and not because they’re trudging uphill, and thinks for a second. Because ouch, that hurts. But he guesses he kind of deserves it. Grantaire and Combeferre are walking further and further away from him, and only faint inaudible fragments of their conversation reach his ear. No, he should be glad, he tells himself, because at least now he knows where they stand.

This is good. He starts moving forward slowly again, steadily getting nearer to the house. They’re nothing to each other, and therefore it won’t matter that they’re both stuck playing this Regency schtick for the next three weeks. Oddly, his heartbeat is the most steady it has been since he first heard of Combeferre’s impending arrival.

He bounds up the stairs and locks himself in his room; there’s no need for formality or apologies, as the rest of the party have already disappeared. He’s relieved to be somewhere where he can just be by himself, where he doesn’t have to guard his expression or pretend that he doesn’t know Grantaire; but he’s even more relieved when he walks through a door on the side of the room and finds a decent sized bathroom with a built in bath. He feels like dropping to his knees and thanking the lord profusely, but instead he fills up the bathtub. In one of the cupboards, there’s a tub of lavender bath salts which he pours generously into the hot water. Then, after grabbing his book, he gratefully lowers himself into the bath, and leans back. 

An hour or so later – he’s not _exactly _sure, but his skin is thoroughly wrinkly, and his book is nearly finished – there’s a knock on his door, and then one again when he doesn’t immediately respond.

“Coming!” he calls, hauling himself out of the bath. He’s groggy and his head feels slightly heavy. He’s not really in the mood for this to be the hot servant again. He wraps a dressing gown that he’d noticed in the cupboard earlier around his body and stuffs his book in its pocket.

It’s Grantaire. Looking concerned. Courfeyrac is confused.

“Can I come in?”

“Eh, sure. If you don’t mind your maidenly reputation being ruined?” Courfeyrac offers.

Grantaire smiles softly at his attempt at a joke and pushes past him into the room. His mouth drops open as he looks around, and he emits a slow whistle. “Damn, this is really something else.”

“Why?” Courfeyrac closes the door behind them and sits down in the window seat. “What does yours look like?”

“Well,” Grantaire replies, a wry expression on his face. “First of all, the servants’ quarter is just around the corner from my cupboard. Copper package, I guess. Poor writer, et al.” he shrugs.

“You can come stay with me, there’s plenty of room.”

“I might just take you up on that. Hey, Courfeyrac,” he sits down on the bed and faces him. “I know I’ve only known you for, what, 48 hours? And just stop me right here if I’m crossing a line or something. But I was wondering if you’re alright?”

“Alright?” Courfeyrac perches onto the windowsill, probably overdoing it on the chipper-voice side of things. Grantaire is absolutely not fooled.

Grantaire crosses his legs and looks straight at him, his eyes narrowed slightly. “I talked to Combeferre. You didn’t tell me you two knew each other.”

Courfeyrac stares at his bare feet, swinging a couple of inches above the ground. “Why? What did he say?”

“Not much. That he thinks you’re different from when you two knew each other. That it was a long time ago. Should there’ve be something else?” Grantaire’s piercing blue eyes are boring into him.

The easy way would be to say “Stop, you’ve crossed the line”. But he’s got the distinct impression that Grantaire’s not here for curiosity’s sake; his concern seems genuine. “Okay. In short. We dated –” (an “Ah, figures…” sound comes from Grantaire’s side of the room) “- during university, but I don’t know. It didn’t work out. I let myself be influenced into thinking I had different priorities and I broke up with him.” He shrugs, not quite daring to look at Grantaire.

They’re both silent for a while. There’s a drop of water rolling down the side of Courfeyrac’s neck, and he wonders what’s going on in Grantaire’s brains right now. Maybe he should ask Grantaire for his natal chart, so as to better interpret his sudden silence.

“Wait –” he says, looking at Grantaire warily. “Why did you make that noise? Did somebody already tell you about this? Did Combeferre?”

Grantaire shakes his head, grinning a little. “No, no, Combeferre never mentioned that you two’d been dating. But this,” gesturing with his hands around the room, “just made it pretty clear why you’d been acting a little weird. You were getting red in the face constantly, and it felt like you were constantly looking at me. I thought it was highly unlikely that you were looking at _me _– now without my fake sideburns there’s not that much to look at – so I figured you must be looking at Combeferre.”

Well, he’s impressed. 

“Listen, we don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. But you’re alright, right?” Grantaire continues. He pushes himself off the bed with a distinct lack of grace.

“Yeah, I’m fine. It’s been years.” Courfeyrac stands up too, huddling close in his fluffy bathrobe. The book is knocked from his bathrobe and catapulted across the room.

Grantaire moves to pick it up, but as soon as he looks at the cover of the book, his face goes carefully blank. He straightens back up and flips the book around, reading the cover text. “Good book?” he asks casually.

So maybe he’s going to need Grantaire’s natal chart after all. He moves to take it from him, feeling both ashamed and proud of the dilapidated state of his copy. “Yeah, it’s one of my favourites, actually. Do you know it?”

“Heard of it,” Grantaire replies. His voice is slightly higher than usual. He scrapes his throat and hands the book back to Courfeyrac as if by touching it, he may be at risk of contracting a super contagious disease. “Eh, well, anyway. That’s what I wanted to ask, and also, whether you’re alright to come down to dinner.”

Courfeyrac crinkles his nose. “I suppose we’ll have to.”

That, at least, makes Grantaire relax a little again, and he laughs. “Don’t tell me you’re tired of it already. I’ll see you,” he says and leaves the room.

Courfeyrac’s not in the mood to ring for his servant, so he dresses himself (which is getting easier with practice) in a black coat. He cheats slightly on the cravat, leaving it less tight than his servant would’ve. He’s very pleased to be able to breathe again properly. He checks his phone, shoots Marius a quick and soothing text (Marius, apparently, was in a state of hyperventilation earlier that day because Courfeyrac hadn’t texted him in twelve hours, so he thought Courfeyrac’s reputation might have been compromised by a lascivious rake, resulting in Courfeyrac’s becoming a social pariah), before tucking it safely back inside his pillowcase, and slipping out of the room.

The dining room is bathed in a warm glow from the insane number of candles glittering in every corner of the room. Courfeyrac is reminded why he came to this house in the first place. The soft light makes it seem surprisingly cozy, and the paintings of 16th century aristocrats seem fractionally less daunting.

Mr Knight and Combeferre are already there, the former already halfway through a decanter of wine, staring down in his lap at what Courfeyrac suspects must be some video on his telephone. He chuckles pleasantly and spills a little red wine over his white shirt. “Oopsie-daisies,” he mumbles. Like a toddler.

Courfeyrac catches Combeferre’s eye. He’s unable to prevent a grin from spreading across his face, and he’s relieved that Combeferre’s mouth twitches upwards too.

“So, eh, hi,” Courfeyrac offers, leaning his arms on the back of his chair.

“Hi,” Combeferre replies. The smile has faded from his face. “How are you enjoying things so far?” He asks politely.

“It’s great, really great,” he exclaims, realising a second too late that Combeferre is probably still perfectly capable of seeing through his chipper exterior. “Well. Kind of great,” he concedes.

That seems to satisfy Combeferre who nods and takes his seat at the table. “Mrs Knight’s _something_, isn’t she?”

Courfeyrac breaks out into a nervous laugh. “I wonder what colour she’ll be in this evening. So far I’ve seen hot pink, fluorescent green and baby blue.”

“That’s quite a lot of rainbow left. And after that, patterns.”

Courfeyrac shudders in mock-horror and takes his own seat at the table. Mr Knight is still happily gazing at whatever he’s watching on his phone. He must be as happy with Mrs Knight’s continued absence as Courfeyrac is. Though he does wish someone else will come into the dining room ASAP.

“Courfeyrac-”

“Listen -”

They both fall silent.

“No, it’s alright. I just wanted to tell you, eh, if my being here is a problem,” Courfeyrac says in a great rush, not daring to look up for fear of what Combeferre’s reaction might be. “Then I’ll go. My backpack is ready, just hanging in the cupboard… I could get an Uber… could I get an Uber? Well, anyway, my point is, I’ll leave. If you need me to. And I’m sorry.”

“Courfeyrac,” Combeferre says. And there’s a gentleness in his tone that forces Courfeyrac to look up. “It’s fine. I don’t mind. Just stay. We’re adults.”

The neutral expression on his face makes Courfeyrac’s insides twist a little. “Yeah. Adults. Glad we cleared that up.”

Combeferre gives him a little nod, and Courfeyrac’s bursting to say more, but, thankfully, he’s prevented from doing so by the dramatic entry of Mrs Knight, looking like she had been carefully wrapped in banana peel. Almighty heavens, who is in charge of this woman’s wardrobe?

He raises an amused eye at Combeferre, who smiles back at him. So maybe they’re strangers now; at least they’re polite to each other.

The rest of their group enter and Grantaire winks at him when he notices he and Combeferre were there by themselves, a comforting kind of gesture that warms Courfeyrac’s heart. Cosette sits down besides him and she lets her hand rest on his arm as she excitedly begins chatting with him as though they’ve been friends since birth and haven’t seen each other for years.

He’s glad he signed up for this. Really glad. Because if he’s not going to find his Darcy of Elizabeth of whomever; he’s at least making some fantastic friends.


End file.
